Six Impossible Things (Before Breakfast)
by msgenevieve447
Summary: Once upon a time, Emma Swan had a basic grasp of fairy tale lore. She knew the basics, as much as any child shunted through the foster system can know them, and it seems to her that every single day of her life now (otherwise known as After Henry) brings a new way to debunk every single story she thinks she knows. Companion story to "The Long Game". Emma Swan/Killian "Hook" Jones


Once upon a time (the time she usually thinks of as Before Henry), Emma Swan had a basic grasp of fairy tale lore. She knew the basics, as much as any child shunted through the foster system can know them, and it seems to her that every single day of her life now (otherwise known as After Henry) brings a new way to debunk every single story she thinks she knows.

One thing remains the same, though. She's still trying to believe six freaking impossible things before breakfast. It's not as though she's short on new things to let sink in, after all.

Today's impossible thing? Oh, well, now that's a doozy. That's a one-handed blacksmith with the kind of face and white-toothed smile she last saw in the pages of a GQ magazine she'd liberated from the communal laundry room in her apartment building.

"So much for fortune favouring the brave," she comments mildly, smiling inwardly as she sees the veiled insult hit home. This one doesn't like being accused of being anything less than courageous, it seems.

"It was all I could do to survive." There's a catch in his voice that doesn't ring true. It's a coward's voice, mouthing excuses, and it's a voice completely at odds with the banked fire of determination flaring at the back of his bright blue eyes.

Putting her elbows on the roughly hewed table between them, she leans forward, invading his space in a way she's done to so many people over so many different tables. When she's close enough to see the way his pupils dilate and smell the strange scent of his skin and hair (brine and dust and what she's come to recognise as the lingering handprint of magic), she smiles at him. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret."

His jaw twitches, and for a split-second she sees the real man behind the façade. Then it's gone, and he's staring at her earnestly once more. _Oh, he's good_, she thinks with grudging admiration. Most people would fall for his 'poor me' act, but unfortunately for him, however, she's not most people. "I'm pretty good at knowing when someone is lying to me."

Again his jaw clenches, and she knows she has him. "I'm telling you the truth," he insists softly, his eyes never leaving hers, and she again feels a flicker of admiration. Which is one flicker too many as far as she's concerned.

She watches him as he does his best to butter up her mother – _you have a grandson?_ – and smiles at Mulan and Aurora as though meeting them has been the best thing that's ever happened to him. So intent is he on charming them, he doesn't notice her slip behind him, her dagger steady in her hand. "It so happens that I know this land well. I can guide you-"

_Okay, Blacksmith Boy, that's enough. Let's find out who you really are._ His words die in his throat as she pulls his head backwards, her hand fisted tight in his hair. "We're not going anywhere until you tell us who you really are."

His throat works as he swallows hard, his eyes frantically searching hers. "I already told you."

"Well, about that." She lets the point of her dagger press just hard enough against his pulse to make him suck in a sharp breath. "I know what you told me. Now I want to know the truth." He says nothing, his chin lifting as they stare at each other, and she feels an odd sliding sensation, something flaring between them that unsettles her mental footing, making her want to take a step backwards.

Time for a change of tactic, she decides hastily, and luckily the Enchanted Forest has quite a few resources for what she has in mind. Seriously, would it be too much to ask for an ogre or two back in her world when she needed them? She can think of a few takedowns when one would have been very handy.

Her current target continues to protest his innocence as Mary Margaret and Mulan tighten the ropes holding him against the most intimidating tree she can find, and he doesn't budge from his story, not even when the air above them begins to shake and she can literally see the cracks in his assumed identity growing wider with every passing second.

The trees around them and the earth beneath them tremble, the tremors coming faster and faster, a dire warning that they are all in danger of death by ogre if they don't move. Finally, she knows she either has to deliver a sucker punch for a confession or cut her losses and leave him behind to die - the latter prospect strangely unappealing – so she throws the dice one last time.

It works.

"Good for you!"

She turns back, pushing aside the unexpected feeling of relief that she's not going to have his death on her conscience. As she walks towards him, he sheds the persona of downtrodden blacksmith in front of her very eyes, making her blink. His grin is more devilish than imploring now, and the gleam in his eyes has her wanting to reach for the dagger tucked into her boot. "You bested me," he continues almost cheerfully, looking at her as though she's passed some kind of test she had no idea she was taking. "I can count the number of people who've done that on one hand!"

"Is that supposed to be funny?" He shrugs, a cavalier lifting of his shoulders, and it's clear he's in the habit of making jokes regarding his missing hand before anyone else can get a word in edgeways on the subject. "Who _are_ you?"

He gives her a mocking little nod, and she has the sudden sense that it would be a mocking little bow if he was able. "Killian Jones." Another self-depreciating smile. "Others have taken to calling me by my more colourful moniker." His smile vanishes, his gaze locking with hers. "Hook."

She stares at him. Okay. Better make that seven freaking impossible things before breakfast, because nothing she's ever read or seen about Captain Hook in the real world could have prepared her for this guy. "As in _Captain_ Hook?"

He looks absurdly pleased for a man tied to a tree against his will. "Ah, so you've heard of me." He turns to address her mother, nodding towards the bag in her hands. "Check my satchel," he instructs, and soon Mary Margaret's gasp and the sudden gleam of silver in the fading sunlight confirms his story, but Emma didn't need confirmation. He'd stopped lying to her as soon as he'd admitted she'd bested him. Very odd behaviour for a pirate, but then again, what would she know?

A few minutes later, her head filled with stories of Cora and golden compasses and enchanted wardrobe dust, she makes her choice. The trees and earth are shuddering around them, a hoarse unworldly bellow renting the air. _Time to go._ "Tell me something," she says in a rush, her dagger a reassuringly solid weight in her hand, "and whatever you say I'd better believe it. Why does Captain Hook want to go to Storybrooke?"

"To exact revenge on the man who took my hand." He glares at her, and she almost takes a step back at the impact of his gaze. "Rumplestiltskin."

Crap. He's telling the truth again, and despite the fact that he's basically telling her that he plans on murdering one of her fellow townspeople, she can't help but admire his gumption. They study each other for a long moment, and she has the oddest sense of empathy. Which is impossible, of course, because he's a fairy tale pirate bent on bloody revenge and she's, well, she's still working on that one. "Fine," she finally spits out, ignoring the pointed silence from the women behind her. "But if you put one foot out of line-"

His mouth twitches. "You have my word."

"Pretty sure that's not as reassuring as you think it is," she mutters as she glances at Mulan over her shoulder, wordlessly asking for help releasing their captive guest.

"You have me at a disadvantage, love," he murmurs in a voice clearly meant only for her ears as she slices at the ropes binding him. "I don't believe I caught your name."

"It's Emma." She keeps her tone as flat as possible, because the last thing she wants to do is invite small talk with this guy. Why she then tells him her full name, she has no idea. "Emma Swan."

Something flickers in his bright gaze, a dark knowledge that burns for a few seconds, then vanishes just as quickly, leaving behind nothing more than a smirk that makes her want to punch him. "That's a lovely name, lass."

She rolls her eyes, already regretting her decision to allow him to accompany them, but he's told her the truth and he can find a way for them to get home, and a deal's a deal.

She cuts him free.

* * *

"Have you even _been_ in love?"

Emma's left foot almost misses its target, and she quickly scrambles for a better hold. This is quite possibly the most bizarre conversation she's ever had, and considering what's been happening in her life over the last few months, that's saying something.

Climbing a giant beanstalk while wearing an enchanted bracelet in order to knock out a bean-destroying giant to steal his golden compass? She can deal with that. Climbing said beanstalk while a handsome (yes, she has eyes, okay?) pirate quizzes her on her love life? Pretty sure she never signed up for speed dating, Enchanted Forest style.

"No. I have never been in love."

Denial is a good distraction.

As their climb wears on, though, it's as though she can't help herself. He's just so fucking enthusiastic about the whole thing, taking each of her monosyllabic answers and turning them back on her. She's never had someone speak to her the way he does, and she doesn't think she can blame it solely on him being from another time, another world. His bright blue eyes sparkle as he tosses yet another quip back at her, his mouth curved in a perpetual smile, and she can't help feeling that his claim of enjoying a challenge is all too true. She's at a loss to understand his motivation in wanting to get to know her better. Quite frankly, she's never met anyone like him in her life.

Then again, she's pretty sure he's never met anyone like her before, either.

She's barely aware of slicing open her palm with her last grasp of the vine before they reach the top, so how the hell he noticed, she has no idea. His concern takes her by surprise, but even more surprising is the awareness that flares into life the moment he catches her arm with his hook and pulls her close. A worrying handsome pirate who has been showing an intense interest in her psyche for the last few hours is one thing, but that same worryingly handsome pirate playing doctor and doing incredibly dexterous things with his mouth to dress her wound is another.

He finally finishes his ministrations, his breath hot on her knuckles. Her throat is dry, and if a giant red flashing 'danger' sign had magically appeared above his head, she wouldn't have been surprised. She can feel her spine starting to arch, the instinct to sway closer to him itching at her skin, and she gives herself a mental shake.

No. This – whatever the hell _this_ is - is not part of the plan.

Then again, neither is grabbing him to stop him from falling over a trip wire a few minutes later and feeling the solid warmth of his body flush against hers for an endless second. Neither is the flutter that squeezes her chest when his long fingers toy with the strands of her hair as he invites her to repeat the performance anytime she likes.

_Time to get the compass and get the hell out of Dodge_, she tells herself. Once they're back on the ground, she'll have the others around her and the incessant flirting might stop and she can get a chance to catch her breath. Because every passing moment she spends with him, she feels that initial sense of empathy evolving and growing and becoming something that unsettles her to the point of making her want to jump out of her skin.

Hook's down for the count when she finally gets the upper hand with the giant (his name is Anton, as it turns out), and she doesn't want to think about the relief that sweeps over her when she sees the pirate's chest steadily rising and falling where he lays near the rubble that fell from the roof. She and the giant (sorry, Anton) reach an accord surprisingly quickly, and she belatedly recognises yet another soul who has been left all alone.

_An orphan's an orphan._

Hook had been right, but she can't afford to have his voice in her head.

More importantly, she can't afford to trust him.

She can't, because she can't trust her own instincts, not when it comes to this. Because when she looks at his face and his smile and the touch of his warm hand, she sees a very different face, and she's not going through that again. Not now, not ever.

"You want to leave him here with me until midnight?" Anton is looking down at her, his puzzled expression almost comical as she finishes telling him what she wants him to do for her. "I don't understand. Isn't he your friend?"

Emma edges closes, keeping her voice low. "Not exactly. We only just met today, you see."

The giant frowns. "But he was helping you, right?"

_Ouch._ She nods, ignoring her prickling conscience. "He was, but he has also been helping someone else. Someone who has been trying to kill me and my friends."

Anton scowls. "That's humans for you."

She beams up at him. "Some of us are very friendly." Darting a quick glance at where she can hear the faint sounds of her guide stirring, she looks back at Anton. "Just – don't hurt him, okay?"

The giant shrugs. "A deal's a deal."

He slips away (although 'slips' isn't exactly the right word when each footstep makes the ground shake) by the time Hook gingerly starts to get to his feet, shuffling forward on his hands and knees until he reaches her side. His smile, though, could light up the whole of Storybrooke, and the pricking of her conscience suddenly gets a whole lot sharper. "You are bloody brilliant! Amazing!" he announces as he takes her outstretched hand, letting her help him clear the last of the rubble. He's shaking his head, as if he can't believe his luck, as if he can't believe _her_. "May I see it? The compass?"

_Come on,_ she tells herself as he coos over the compass cradled in her hand. _You can do this. You've done this a hundred times before. It's nothing personal, just a quick apprehension for the greater good. _

His smile falters only slightly when she slides the compass back into her pocket, his eyes still alight with the glee that only comes with success as he holds out his hand to her. "Come, let's go." She swallows hard, then takes his hand in hers. His grip is firm and warm, the sudden reality of what she's about to do making the perfect fit of his palm against hers that much harder to dismiss.

_I'm sorry._

The click of the metal shackle as she closes it around his right wrist seems to reverberate through the cavernous room. He's on his feet in a heartbeat, his shock painfully evident. "What are you doing?" When she doesn't answer – she can't – he raises his voice, straining against the chain. "What are you _doing_?"

_Saving me from myself_, she wants to say, but doesn't, of course. "Hook, I-I can't-"

"Emma, look at me." She does, and immediately regrets it, because he is looking at her as though she's the only person worth a damn in his life. Which can't possibly be true, so why on earth isn't she already halfway down the damned beanstalk? "Have I told you a lie?" His faith in her ability to sniff out liars might have been flattering if she wasn't in the throes of a crisis of conscience. When she doesn't answer, he goes on, his voice breaking on every other word, and she knows everything he is saying to her is the complete and utter truth. "I brought you here, I risked my own safety to help you. The compass is _in _your hands." His shoulders slump, arms falling loosely to his sides, his eyes fever bright. "Why do this to me _now_?"

"I can't take a chance that I'm wrong about you." The truth trips over her tongue in a reluctant whisper, but it's not a good enough reason, not for him. He waits, his shocked gaze burning into hers, and she knows she has to leave now before she changes her mind. "I'm sorry," she tells him, and it pains her to realise just how sorry she is.

Her apology isn't good enough for him either. "You're _sorry_?" He spits the words at her, sounding beyond furious. "I got you here. I got you the compass."

"_I_ got the compass," she shoots back, knowing she's merely clutching at semantic straws, but strangely enough, he seems to accept that particular argument.

"Well, are you just going to leave me here to die?" She sees his throat work as he swallows. "Have that beast crush me, eat my bones." For the first time since she held her dagger to his throat, she sees real fear in his eyes.

It's not something of which she's proud, but guilt tends to make her defensive, and it seems today is running true to form. "He's not a beast, and you're not going to die." She starts to back away, her hand curved over the weight of the compass in her jacket pocket, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. "I just need a head start. That's all."

She flees, and the sound of her name being invoked as a brand new curse word (interwoven with the ferocious clanking of metal) lingers in her head long after she's reached the ground.

It's only two days later, when she faces him through the bars of Rumplestiltskin's old cell, that she realises just how deeply a betrayal can wound a man. If she didn't know better, she'd think he truly mourned about the loss of their budding partnership. "You would have done the same," she tells him, knowing she's asking for validation, for reassurance that she's not the bad guy here, and his eyes gleam with an emotion she can't begin to fathom.

"Actually, no."

Her heart drops. Just two words, but they sure pack a fucking giant punch. Then he's gone, trailing after Cora, leaving her behind, and this time, no shouting of his name will bring him back.

* * *

"Please. You couldn't handle it."

His eyebrow quirks, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Perhaps _you're_ the one who couldn't handle it."

That damned eyebrow thing and the fact he is clearly laughing at her are more than enough to make her hands twitch with the urge to slap him. Afterwards, she will struggle to pinpoint the moment she decided to call his bluff instead. Right now, all she knows is that she wants him to shut up.

It's a moment of pure madness, and she willingly yields.

_We'll see about that_, she tells him silently, then her hands are gripping his lapels and jerking him forward and her mouth is on his and she is kissing him. It's one-sided for a heartbeat, then he's kissing her back hungrily, his mouth opening to her kiss, the first touch of his tongue against hers sending a shock of desire clawing through her.

His hand slides into her hair, holding her steady, his mouth tasting hers again and again, but still letting her lead, letting her take from him exactly what she wants. Oh, and she wants.

She feels the scrape of his beard against her cheek and imagines how it might feel against other, softer skin, and her hands tighten on his coat as a rush of heat floods her blood. God, she needs to stop, they need to stop, but she doesn't and they don't, the kiss going on and on and changing and becoming dangerously more than just calling his bluff. They sway together, his right hand still cupping the back of her head, her fingers digging so hard into the lapels of his coat that she knows without looking that her knuckles are white. She tastes his groan, feels the desire thrumming through him, and knows if she pressed closer, let her body find his, she'd feel him, the hard thrust of his body against hers, right where she's suddenly aching and empty and needing –

_Fuck._

Needing him like _this_ was not in the plan.

She can't. Not now.

She finally finds the willpower to pull away, but her hands don't seem to want to obey, and neither do her feet. They stand together in the warm press of Neverland air, the sound of insects and god-knows-what else surrounding them, an endless moment of indecision and she just needs a moment to remember who he really is, what he really is, but the warm pull of his body so close to hers is making it impossible to think.

His breath is rough and hot against her mouth, his nose brushing against her in an unspoken invitation. His right hand ghosts over the curve of her hip, the faintest brush of his fingertips against the fabric of her shirt making her shudder. She hears him inhale a long, dragging breath, then two words that seem to come up from the depths of his chest. "That was-"

Suddenly afraid of what he's going to say, she finds her errant willpower. She can't do this.

"A one-time thing," she tells him, tells herself, the words a buffer between his mouth and hers, a desperate attempt to stop herself from leaning forward and catching his kiss-swollen bottom lip between her teeth. She pulls back, releasing his coat lapels, her hands damp, her stomach roiling with an uneasy heat that has nothing to do with the jungle around them. She turns on her heel, putting one foot in front of the other, putting enough distance between them so it will be easier to pretend her heart isn't hammering against her ribs so hard that the whole of freaking Neverland can probably hear it.

"Don't follow me. Wait five minutes." She falls back into the one thing she knows, making plans, thinking one step ahead. Covering her tracks. She needs to get away from him before she does something she's afraid she won't regret. "Go get some firewood or something."

"As you wish."

The soft words wash over her, making her falter, her stride trembling for an instant. There's no way he could know that reference from her world, she tells herself. It would be impossible, she thinks.

But since when something being impossible ever stopped him?

* * *

She doesn't realise how much she's taken his presence for granted until he's not there.

Back on dry land, it's as though everything that passed between them in Neverland never happened. She's swept up in reunions and hugs and praise, and every time she tries to find his gaze with hers, he's very carefully not looking at her. Finally, she gives up, letting herself be carried along by the tide of her family (and Neal), fighting the urge to look back over her shoulder to make sure he was following.

Henry, too, is strangely distant, his gaze alighting everywhere except her face, and he suddenly seems so much older than his years. A cruel irony that, in the one place where time was supposed to stand still, her son's eyes seems to have aged a lifetime in only a few days.

They all end up at Granny's, eating and drinking (and using the indoor plumbing, thank God), and she can't hold back the wave of the relief that washes over her when she sees Hook's familiar profile at the counter. She knows he's seen her (it irritates that she can read his body language so well but still have no idea what's going on in his head), but he doesn't turn to greet her. Instead, he sips his beer and makes small talk with the dwarves, and she should be happy that he's trying to fit in, but all she feels is abandoned. Which is ridiculous, because she's being literally smothered by people every single moment. They're just not the right people.

The long day unfolds and, time after time, she finds herself turn to speak to him, to share something with him. And every time he's not there, his absence is like a punch to a bruise, a dull pain that niggles and burns beneath the skin.

Neal, however, is another story. He's at her shoulder, smiling at her whenever he can catch her eye, bringing her Henry's storybook as though presenting her with some kind of prize. He's home, Henry is safe, his father has redeemed himself, so apparently he's decided that it's time to mend fences with her.

The problem is, she's not sure they're worth mending.

She's well aware of her mother's thoughts on the Neal issue. She's also well aware that Mary Margaret is an eternal optimist who doesn't know the whole story when it comes to Henry's father. She loves her mother, she does, but right now, she's suffocating, and the last place she wants to be tomorrow at lunch time is sitting across a booth from Neal making awkward conversation about why he never came looking for her once the curse was broken.

She finally leaves Granny's just before midnight, planning to accompany her parents back to their shared apartment. Hook is still there, tucked into a back corner with Grumpy and Tinkerbell. Whatever story the fairy is telling them, it clearly has both men enthralled. As though he senses her watching him, Hook lifts his head, his gaze meeting hers with a dark accuracy that makes the gooseflesh rise up on her arms. She wonders briefly if she should join him, but they haven't spoken a word to each other all day, and the strangeness of the situation has her wrong-footed in all the worst ways. Instead, she merely nods to where her parents are standing at the door waiting for her, and he gives her a tight smile, raising his beer tankard to her in what feels like a mocking salute. By the time she reaches the door, he's already turned away from her, back to Tinkerbell and her pretty laughing face and Grumpy's slaps on the back.

Fine, she thinks as she strides out into the cold night air. He wants to be detached? She can do detached better than anyone.

Henry is gone, having asked to spend the night at Regina's – which is a whole other world of weirdness that doesn't seem to bother anyone else – and she sleeps in her own bed for the first time in what feels like an eternity. Her dreams are filled with jungle green mist, the cries of the Lost Boys, the unearthly screech of shadows as they swoop above her head. When she jolts awake just before dawn, the sheets tangled around her bare legs, she knows she was dreaming of him. Slumping backwards, she punches her pillow, biting her bottom lip hard as though that might chase away the dream, the memory of his mouth on hers, hot and hard and wanting.

The next day, she doesn't go to the diner.

Instead, she heads towards the water. She doesn't go to the dock where the Jolly Roger is moored - she's not that much of a glutton for punishment - but she's close enough, and every passing moment that she doesn't see his familiar swagger along the shore, something dims a little inside her. She needs to talk to him, needs to talk to him about Henry, to have him listen to her in his quiet watchful way, the way in which no one else ever seems to listen to her.

When a man-shaped figure does appear, it's her father. She knows her mother has sent him, and she knows why he's here. She doesn't want to talk about Neal, though. She wants to talk about Henry.

Her father – very gently, of course – brushes aside her concerns. Henry's been through a lot, he's re-adjusting, by tomorrow night he'll want to come home again. When the conversation turns to Neal, as she knew it would, she bites back her sigh of frustration. She's never going to hear the end of it unless she gets in that truck and goes to Granny's, so she does, feeling as though every step is taking her closer to a waiting trap, like Pan's damn shadow being sucked into that coconut.

As so often happens in Storybrooke, things go awry very quickly. Chaos descends the moment they reach the diner, a woman's shriek piercing the air. She barely has time to clamber out of David's truck before she almost smacks headfirst into Hook and Tinkerbell, who have just rushed out of guest accommodation entrance of Granny's. The captain looks like a man who's been up all night, his hair mussed, his face flushed, and he seems to be finding it very difficult to meet her eyes. Next to him, Tinkerbell looks as though she wants the ground to swallow her whole, and the words are out of Emma's mouth before she can stop them. "Wait, were you two-?" Appalled at herself, she bites off the words, but the damage is already done.

The fairy looks scandalised. "No!"

Hook, on the other hand, merely shrugs, his eyes finally meeting hers. "Perhaps," he tosses back at her, his tone almost defiant, and something dark and unpleasant burns in the pit of her stomach. They're the first words they've exchanged since their return to Storybrooke, and it's not exactly the conversation she'd been planning.

Another scream echoes through the air. David and the fairy are faster on their feet, leaving her alone with Hook and no time in which to slap some answers out of him. He's still watching her, as if he's waiting for her to do just that – or something else, something she'd done once before when he pushed her to the edge of her mental rope – but instead she turns away and begins to run.

When they sprint through the streets, she feels him match his stride to hers, keeping pace with her, and her spirits begin to lift at the solid shape of him at her shoulder.

* * *

The Blue Fairy is dead, Pan's shadow is back, Henry is clinging to Regina like a baby koala and Hook has once again vanished into thin air, possibly with Tinkerbell. The fact that the last bothers her at all when so much else is happening irritates her like itching powder, niggling at her until she can't sit still. She's got an hour before she's expected at Gold's shop, and she's going to spend it getting some answers out of a certain pirate.

She checks with Granny at the front desk before she heads upstairs – there's no polite way to ask if someone is going to be in a compromising position when a visitor arrives, but thankfully the older woman hears the question Emma isn't asking. "He's up there. Alone. Still sleeping off last night's hangover, if you ask me. Seems like he was trying to drown his sorrows a little too enthusiastically." Granny's shrewd gaze sweeps over her. "Can't imagine why."

Emma assumes her best Sheriff expression. She can do detached. "Thanks."

She climbs the stairs, silently vowing that she is not doing this to quiz him about his love life. She needs to talk to him about Henry, and that's all that matters. Rapping her knuckles on the door to his room, she hears a muffled voice utter a weak, "Yes?" and that's good enough for her.

It's only when she's inside his room that she realises that she could have walked in on him in bed. Or naked. Or both. He's neither, and she tells herself that she's glad. He's wearing his usual black shirt loose over his leather trousers, his vest and coat strewn across the unmade bed. She turns her back on the bed, because if there's any evidence he shared it with someone else last night, she doesn't want to see it.

She takes a deep breath, but it's a mistake. The room smells like unfamiliar spices and rum and Granny's favourite guest soap, and she knows that if she buried her face in the crook of his neck, he would smell the same. "We need to talk."

"Do come in, love." He still looks like hell, but it appears his sarcasm quota must still be met. "Haven't we already had this conversation?" Folding his arms across his chest, he lounges against the windowsill, looking irritatingly amused. "Something about my brother and your father and the Crocodile doing you a favour?"

She doesn't have time for this. "So, Hook, tell me something." It's as close as she gets to telling him to shut the fuck up and let her speak, and his mouth presses together in a tight line. Good. She needs to talk to him about Henry, but how can she confide in him when there is this great freaking divide between them? She needs to clear the air, but if he keeps talking, goading her and pushing her, she will never get the words out. "Where you come from, is sleeping with other women thought of as customary behaviour when trying to win someone's heart?"

There. It's said and done, and now she just has to wait for him to laugh and wave her concerns away with an airy hand. But he doesn't. He simply stares at her, as though he can't believe she's in his room saying these things to him. She waits, but he still says nothing, and the jittery niggle is back, pinching at her last nerve. "Well?"

"Emma, I-"

_Screw it_. Not for the first time in his presence, she decides on a final throw of the dice. "Because in this world, that sort of thing just makes you kind of a dick."

Her voice catches on the last word and it makes her angry to feel so vulnerable, especially in front of _him_, but he's coming towards her now, his eyes dark with concern and an apology she's not sure he owes her. "Emma." Her hand is swallowed up in his, then he's tugging her closer, catching her hand against his chest. He dips his head, meeting her gaze steadily, the truth of each word ringing as clear as a bell. "I am not having a dalliance with the fairy."

She closes her eyes, breathing in the scent of him, letting the warmth of him soak into her skin. The absurdity of their conversation suddenly hits her, and she almost laughs. "And to think, that won't be the strangest thing anyone says to me today." Opening her eyes, she can almost feel the press of the tension in the air around them. She's been in his arms twice before, but always when he was wearing his protective leather armour, and she can no more resist the urge to feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt than she can step away. Twisting her hand in his grasp, she flattens it against his chest, over his heart, and fights the urge to rest her head on his shoulder. She suddenly feels utterly weary, yet strangely energised.

"Now I have a question for you, Sheriff Swan." His hand moves, coming to cover hers, holding it hard against his chest. "Would you care if I were?"

She hesitates, feeling faintly sick, as though she is about to put a foot out into thin air, knowing there is no safety net. But she is here, and there's nowhere to run. Not this time. "Yes." There's a sudden lump in her throat, making it hard to speak. "I would."

His left arm slides around her back, and she feels the press of his hook low on her spine. _Oh, God._ His mouth is against her ear, his breath warm as it skitters over her skin. "Emma-"

It's just like Neverland, only much worse. Heat slides through her belly, tendrils of awareness snaking through her blood, finding every inch of skin and setting it ablaze. "I - we can't do this. Not now." Brave words, when all she wants to do is push him backwards onto the messy bed and climb into his lap and lose herself, finding refuge in his skin and mouth and flesh until she can't remember her own name.

He stills in her embrace for a long moment, then sighs lightly. "I know." His breath teases the sensitive skin just behind her ear, making her wonder what the scrape of his teeth would feel like, just there.

She inhales sharply. It's time to rejoin the real world, because if she stays here in this room, there is only one possible ending to this particular chapter. "There's too much happening, and I just can't-"

Pulling her hand from his chest, he lifts it to his mouth. "I know." It's almost a rebuke, swiftly tempered by the lingering kiss he presses to her palm. He's kissing her scar, she realises, the one he dressed at the top of the beanstalk, and an odd little swoop of tenderness twists through her chest. "Have I never mentioned how long I've already waited for you, love?"

"No, you haven't." She feels her mouth twitch with the start of a smile, and she knows it's the first time she's smiled properly in hours. "You'll have to share that story some time."

"Oh, I will." He shoots her a grin over the top of her hand, his mouth hot against her knuckles in one last kiss before he releases his grasp. "Until that time, let's just say that I'm a very patient man when it comes to you, darling."

She's no slouch in the eyebrow raising department. "So patient it only took you one day to give up on me."

"Ah." Twisting gracefully, he retrieves his vest from the bed. "Truth be told, there's more to that story than meets the eye, love."

She feels her smile widen. _So much for detachment. Damn him._ "I'm sure there is," she replies, "but right now I have to go to Gold's shop." She watches him as he effortlessly shrugs into and buttons his vest with one hand, not letting herself think about how nimble those long fingers truly are.

"Checking on Pan's shadow, of course."

His words are like having cold water dashed over her, a reminder that this is all very far from over. "Not just that. There's something else. Something's not right about Henry," she says in a rush, the words tripping over themselves now that he's finally here to listen to her.

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"It's nothing concrete, nothing I can put my finger on." She looks at him, wondering if he can tell how long she's been waiting to find someone to believe her. "But I know him, and I know something's wrong."

He doesn't hesitate. "I've never know your instincts to be wrong, Swan. If you think something is wrong with the boy, then we need to investigate."

"Thank you." A heady wave of relief washes over her, and she has to curl her hands into fists at her sides to stop herself from reaching for him. The last time she thanked him with a kiss, it was almost their undoing. Judging by the wistful glance he gives her, his thoughts have travelled the same path.

"Another time, perhaps." He clears his throat loudly. "I must rendezvous with Baelfire and Tinkerbell to retrieve the coconut," he says as he picks up his coat from the bed. "But I'll escort you to Gold's shop first, and you can tell me exactly what's troubling you about your son."

A few moments later, they're walking together along Main Street, his shoulder brushing against hers with every step, and despite the fear for Henry that's clutching at her heart, she suddenly feels as though nothing is impossible.

* * *

Whatever she was expecting at 8:15am on a Saturday morning, it wasn't a dark, handsome stranger wearing a black leather pirate outfit. Her brain ratchets into overdrive. Singing telegram? Strip-a-gram? Menu delivery guy for a new all-you-can-eat seafood place?

Whoever he is, he's staring at her as though he's seen a ghost. She stares right back, taking in the dark hair, the blue eyes, the five o'clock shadow, and finally the joy etched on his face. Wait, back up. _Joy_?

"Swan." He takes a step forward, one arm outstretched as though to gather her into his embrace. "At last."

_What the fuck?_ "Woah." She throws up a defensive hand, painfully aware of the fact that she's in her pyjamas and that her pepper spray is tucked into her purse and too far away to do her any good. "Do I know you?"

She knows she doesn't, so why is she not slamming the door shut in his face?

"Look, I need your help. Something's happened, something terrible." His voice is faintly accented – British? – and more than a little mesmerising. "Your family is in trouble."

Okay, either someone is punking her, or she's dealing with a nutjob here. Either way, it's not funny. "My family's right here," she snaps at him, her fingertips tightening on the door. _Just shut the door in his face_. "Who are you?"

"An old friend." His gaze is searching hers frantically, as if trying to peer inside her head. "I know you can't remember me, but-" He breaks off, giving her the chance to recognise the pain in his eyes - why does it pain him and why would she fucking care? - then he's stepping forward, closing the distance between them before she has the chance to say or do anything. "But I can make you," he says in a rush, then he's kissing her, his mouth warm and firm on hers, his hand cupping the back of her head as though he's kissed her every day for the whole of his life.

For a brief few seconds of madness, she closes her eyes, because she _knows_ this, knows the taste of his mouth, knows the feel of his hand tangled in her hair.

_Holy crap._

She jerks back, her knee instinctively finding its target between his legs. Putting both hands on his chest, she gives him a panicked shove, sending him staggering backwards, his back slamming against the hallway wall, a very different kind of pain etched on his face.

"What the hell was that?" Her whole body is awash with a sudden surge of adrenaline, and again, why is she not slamming the door in his face?

"A long shot," he grits out, scrambling to get to his feet. "I had to try." He clutches at his side, obviously winded from his collision with the wall. "I was hoping you felt as I did."

She stares at him. Her mouth is still tingling, her hands still feeling the solid heat of his chest beneath her palms. _Door. Shut the door._ "All I gotta feel is the handcuffs when I call the cops."

He's on his feet again, moving back towards her, his hand outstretched, his eyes pleading with her. "Look, I know this sounds crazy, but you have to listen to me. Please, you have to remember."

She can't.

She slams the door shut, closing out his frantic face and his voice and his pleas. She's only vaguely aware of throwing the lock, but it's finally done. Henry looks at her, his fork halfway to his mouth.

"Who was that?"

She opens her mouth, a name on the tip of her tongue for the briefest stolen fragment of time, then it's gone. "No idea." Smiling at her son, she tries to shake off the very real thought that her visitor – whoever the hell he was – was telling her the truth.

Because that would be impossible.


End file.
